


in the undertow

by servir



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Handcuffs, Post-Game(s), Second Time, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 11:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20242435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servir/pseuds/servir
Summary: Lindsey gets worked up after a loss. Emily helps her wind down.It's not the first time (or the last).





	in the undertow

**Author's Note:**

> [I have nothing to say for myself](https://anon.to/vAqGL9).

Losing a derby sucks.

Emily spends too long in the shower, wishing the hot water could wash away the atmosphere instead of just the grime and sweat. The locker room is quiet when she gets out, toweling her hair dry and trying to smile when people look at her in hopes that it will diffuse some of the tension. It works with a few, Hayley and Midge mostly, but when she flashes her best cheesy smile at Lindsey, Lindsey glowers back at her.

Lindsey gets like this after games, sometimes— acts like every game she loses is a World Cup final and sulks appropriately, even if it’s a Wednesday in July and they’re set to make the playoffs anyway. It tends to take her a few days to get back to her normal self, but there’s a quick turn around this week and they have to play North Carolina in four days, so Emily doesn’t want to let it linger.

Emily is one of the last on the bus, shuffling sideways down the aisle with her backpack bumping against each row she passes until she’s almost at the back. “Scooch,” she says as Lindsey looks up at her, both airpods in and her eyebrows creased together. Emily makes a scooting movement for good measure.

Lindsey’s annoyed, but she takes a deep breath and slides over into the window seat as Emily plops down next to her, shoving her bag under the seat. The bus pulls away just as Emily gets settled, reaching over and plucking the airpod closest to her out of Lindsey’s ear. Lindsey tries to snatch it back, but Emily leans out into the aisle to keep it away from her.

“You’re listening to my playlist,” she protests, amping up the dramatics of keeping the airpod away from Lindsey, arm flung out across the aisle, “that means I get to listen too.”

“Whatever,” Lindsey mutters, giving up and shifting onto her hip so she can, by Emily’s standard, glower out the window more dramatically.

Emily lets it go until they pull out onto the highway, the dark and rocking motion of the bus lulling their teammates to sleep. The highway lights cast bending shadows over everything, and when Emily cranes forward to look out the window she can see Lindsey frowning in the reflection, worrying her lip with her teeth.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Emily says over the music. Lindsey rolls her eyes at the Emily reflected in the window, but she does turn back around, leaning back into her seat and letting her head fall back against the headrest, arms crossed over her chest and her eyes shut. Emily almost thinks she’s fallen asleep like that when her leg starts bouncing, agitated and a little anxious.

Without thinking, Emily drops a hand to Lindsey’s thigh to stop her.

Lindsey opens her eyes, tilting her head forward to look at Emily, and it all feels surreal suddenly, like something out of a movie. Emily isn’t sure what state they’re in, which road they’re on, what time it is— she doesn’t know anything, really. But Lindsey takes a deep breath, the tension seeping out of her shoulders as she stretches and shifts her leg closer to Emily’s, knocking their knees together. Emily can feel the muscle under her palm tense.

Emily swallows, her mouth dry.

This is something else, now.

Or, it could be. Lindsey doesn’t say anything, but she looks at Emily for a long second before closing her eyes again and leaning back in her seat. Emily glances down at her hand on Lindsey’s thigh, fingers splayed out. It’d be innocent enough without the tension — from the game, from France, from years of being emotional foils on and off a hundred different fields — and can still be if she ignores it, but something in her gut makes her lean into it instead. She always finds herself leaning into Lindsey.

Emily waits until she’s sure that Midge is asleep, sprawled across both seats across the aisle from them, then slowly but purposefully slides her hand first to the inside of Lindsey’s thigh, then further up between her legs. She stops before she gets anywhere, really, but Lindsey instinctively shifts in her seat, lifting her hips up into Emily’s hand as Emily presses her fingers high into Lindsey’s thigh just shy of the inseam of her sweats.

They breathe at the same time.

“Welcome to Oregon,” the driver says over the intercom.

-

They've only done this once before— in a hotel in Brasilia, Lindsey's hands pressing Emily's wrists down into the mattress, rocking her hips with such a desperate rhythm that Emily ached the next day. Lindsey had looked embarrassed in the morning, watching Emily wince as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, but Emily had reached out across the space between them to squeeze Lindsey's fingers in her own before making her way down to breakfast.

They never talked about it. Shit happens, Emily figured, when you humiliate yourselves at the Olympics. Once in a lifetime opportunities leave space for once in a lifetime meltdowns.

It didn't mean anything, really.

So Emily is a little surprised when they get back from Tacoma, past midnight and exhausted, and Lindsey shoves her back against the kitchen island and ducks down to kiss her, all teeth and desperation to do something right.

And, well, Emily's not an idiot.

Lindsey recoils for a moment when Emily leans into the kiss, pulling back and looking at her like she's searching for something; she still has Emily's hips pressed into the countertop with both hands, but the granite digging into the small of Emily's back aches in a way that makes her forget about her tired legs. Emily brings one hand to Lindsey's shoulder, tracing the line of muscle there while Lindsey blinks at her, flushed in the low light.

"Yeah?" Emily asks.

Lindsey swallows, looking down at where her fingers are splayed out along Emily's ribs, taking a deep breath that Emily can feel in her shoulders. She nods. "Yeah."

Emily's mouth is dry. "Okay."

This time Lindsey kisses her with less teeth but more insistence. Emily wraps an arm around her neck and grabs at Lindsey's collar with her free hand, trying to lean into it. Lindsey doesn't give, and Emily's not sure why she expected her to but it drops something warm and dangerous low in Emily's stomach, only made worse when Lindsey shifts to press a thigh between Emily’s legs, giving her something to try to work herself against. Lindsey’s grip on her still doesn’t give, though, and it’s a futile effort that leaves Emily flushed and gasping for breath when Lindsey finally breaks the kiss, moving to her jaw and down the curve of her neck before starting to work up an angry mark there that makes Emily hiss.

Lindsey’s hands are heavy and just as insistent as her mouth. She leaves one low on Emily’s hip, keeping her in place, and lets the other wander, first over Emily’s stomach and then higher, palming her over her bra. Emily is more desperate for it than she wants to let on, but gives in and lets go of the collar of Lindsey’s shirt to grab at Lindsey’s hand under her own. “Fuck,” Lindsey mumbles, abandoning the mark she’s been working at with her teeth to kiss Emily again, moving her other hand from Emily’s hip to between her legs, the pressure just barely there.

Emily takes advantage of her new range of moment to press herself down against Lindsey’s fingers, rocking against them against Lindsey’s hip, throwing any semblance of shame out the window. She can be embarrassed tomorrow, if it comes to that.

Lindsey reacts exactly how Emily expects her to, pulling her hand away and frantically tucking her fingers into the hem of Emily’s sweats and shorts and starting to tug them down. Emily doesn’t break the kiss, but she puts a hand soldily on Lindsey’s chest and adds enough pressure that Lindsey takes the hint and takes a step back.

“Woah,” Emily says, her voice more of a wheeze than anything else, “totally unsanitary to fuck in the kitchen.”

Incredulous, Lindsey blinks at her. “I hate you.”

Emily laughs, tapping her fingers against Lindsey’s sternum, feeling the rise and fall as she catches her breath. This time Lindsey doesn’t look embarrassed and Emily wants to keep it that way.

“C’mon,” she says, reaching for Lindsey’s hand and tugging her out of the kitchen. She falters in the hallway, momentarily unsure of which bedroom she should take them to, unsure if that means something or not, before deciding on her own. Her bed is unmade and when she lets go of Lindsey’s hand, Lindsey steps in close and nudges her down onto it with her hands on Emily’s shoulders.

There’s a moment of hang time again, and Emily breaks it by tugging her own shirt over her head and tossing it in the vague direction of her dresser. Lindsey is still just looking at her, though, so Emily presses her lips together in a smile that’s halfway to a smirk and reaches out to tuck a finger into the waistband of Lindsey’s sweats, tugging her forward.

It works like a charm.

Before Emily can get too smug about it Lindsey has her pressed down into the mattress, straddling Emily’s waist and pressing her wrists back into the pillows just like last time. It’s been years and Emily still remembers, has it burned into the back of her brain somewhere, waiting for when she’s tired or pent up or frustrated. She’s not proud of dredging it up when she’s alone, hand trapped under her hips and against the mattress, face pressed into her pillows— but who wouldn’t, really. She wonders if Lindsey thinks about it, too.

Now, though, she’s remembering wanting Lindsey’s hands somewhere other than pressing marks into her forearms, anywhere and everywhere. Lindsey is starting up another mark along her collarbone when Emily’s brain catches back up with reality; she savors it until it starts to sting, then puts enough resistance into lifting her wrists that Lindsey immediately stops and sits back on her heels, breathing heavy and letting Emily have space. She looks concerned, flyaways loose from her ponytail going in all directions, and Emily’s chest swells with something that’s entirely too much for what this is.

Lindsey looks like she wants to say something but is afraid to, so Emily cranes up to kiss her again, slow and lingering and full of what she hopes comes across as reassurance before she pulls back. She’s not thinking about it when she pulls her bra over her head and tosses it away before she leans over the side of the mattress to root around in her nightstand; Lindsey is so distracted when Emily turns back to her that she doesn’t even notice the handcuffs until Emily snaps one onto her own wrist with a flourish.

“Um," Lindsey says, swallowing hard. "Please tell me you have the key?" 

Emily grins at her. "Do you think I'm a rookie?" 

That makes Lindsey blush, Emily can see it in her cheeks and at the tips of her ears even in the low light. It's cute. Emily pats Lindsey's thigh reassuringly, the handcuffs rattling almost comically. "I have the key, don't worry."

She's pretty sure she has the key. 50-50, at least.

Either way, with the look Lindsey is giving her, potentially having to call the fire department would be worth it. She waits for Lindsey to make the call, though— she's clearly turning the idea end over end in her head, and Emily is starting to wonder how to pull her back out of it when Lindsey clears her throat. "Lay back," she says, and Emily does.

Lindsey doesn't do anything other than study her for a moment, and Emily feels distinctly unsexy with one wrist cuffed and her arms sprawled out above her head, in limbo. Then Lindsey takes one final, steadying breath and twists her shirt up over her head, leaning down to kiss Emily in one fluid motion that makes Emily groan against her mouth and instinctively reach up to thread her fingers into Lindsey's hair. Lindsey lets her, briefly, and Emily realizes she's more worked up than she expected to be when she tugs insistently at Lindsey's hair. Eventually Lindsey sits back up, reaching for Emily's wrists and lifting them back up over her head. She fumbles briefly with threading the handcuffs through the gaps in Emily's headboard but she manages, reaching for Emily's free wrist and making eye contact that seems to surprise them both when she clicks the second cuff closed.

"Why do you have these?" Lindsey asks quietly when she sits back on her heels. 

Emily swallows, moving her arms instinctively and watching Lindsey's gaze flick up and back down again when the metal cuffs rattle against the headboard. "I thought you'd want to have both hands free next time," she says.

They both know she's talking about Brasilia, and the marks Lindsey's grip had left on her— and what that thought being in the back of Emily's mind still, three years later, means. It's a little too honest, but the way it makes Lindsey look at her is worth it, Emily thinks, surprised and holding something back at the same time. Emily doesn't want her to hold back anymore.

Lindsey is hesitant the next time she reaches out to touch Emily, thumbing against her hip and then gently tucking her fingers under the waist of Emily's sweats. She doesn't pull at them, just lets the backs of her fingers rest against Emily's stomach, rising and falling as Emily breathes.

"Lindsey," Emily says, shifting her hips against the mattress to get Lindsey to look up at her. "I want you to."

Saying it does the opposite of what Emily wants— Lindsey takes her hand back and shifts further down the bed, away from Emily, and Emily thinks she might die of embarrassment if Lindsey backs out now. Instead, Lindsey slips her hands under Emily's hips and tugs her further down the mattress too, making Emily's arms go taught and her stomach flip. "Fuck," Emily breathes, and Lindsey actually laughs. They're close enough that Emily can feel it along with hearing it, and she has half a moment to think that this is the hottest thing to ever happen to her before Lindsey is kissing her again, all the insistence that Emily's been missing right back where it was. 

Emily has lost sleep thinking about how Lindsey’s skin would feel against hers, but she never came close to reality; Lindsey is warm, almost feverish where she’s pressed up against Emily, and softer than Emily imagined. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, to feel her like this, and Emily instinctively tries to reach for her— the handcuffs catch against the headboard and the noise seems to startle Lindsey, who sits back to glance up at them and then back down at Emily’s face. Emily knows she’s a mess, can feel how her lips are swollen and knows that her blush is starting to stretch down her neck to her chest, but she doesn’t care.

There’s a moment where Lindsey looks like she wants to say something, breathing shakily into the space between them. Instead she shifts on the bed, rocking her hips down against Emily’s once, watching as Emily turns her head to smother her groan in her arm, then repositions herself to straddle just one of Emily’s legs, giving Emily a thigh to grind up against. Emily’s far enough gone that it’s shameless.

Lindsey doesn’t let her do it for long, moving down her body to start working a mark into the sensitive skin below Emily’s breasts and using the hand she’s not holding herself up with to press Emily’s hips down into the mattress, holding her still. Her hand feels huge on Emily’s skin, and Lindsey strokes her thumb along Emily’s hipbone in a way that Emily knows is meant to drive her crazy. It works and she’s not able to be quiet about it, moaning into the heavy silence of the bedroom.

She can feel Lindsey smile against her skin.

“Linds,” Emily mumbles, her lips numb. “Please, come on.”

For once Lindsey listens to her, her mouth moving up as the hand on Emily’s hip moves down— Emily feels like she could scream when Lindsey doesn’t move to tug her sweatpants down, but then Lindsey’s hand is replacing her thigh between Emily’s legs, touching her through the fabric, and Emily can’t keep herself quiet. She’s almost afraid Lindsey will laugh at her, loud and turned on enough that Lindsey could get her off through her sweatpants and shorts, but she doesn’t. She seems almost frantic when she kisses Emily again, tongue swiping against Emily’s lips as she finally tugs at Emily’s sweatpants and shorts at the same time— Emily wants to help, tense and straining her arms against the handcuffs, and she lifts her hips when Lindsey has to scramble down the mattress to get them off.

Lindsey knocks one of the succulents off of Emily’s dresser when she tosses her sweatpants away, but the crash isn’t enough to distract Emily from the way Lindsey is looking at her, sat back on her heels at the foot of Emily’s bed, hair a mess and one hand sliding slowly up the inside of Emily’s thigh.

It doesn’t remind Emily of Brasilia at all.

“You look,” Lindsey starts, then stops when Emily shifts the thigh under her palm, opening her hips up and trying to nudge Lindsey closer. Lindsey swallows, wets her lips with her tongue. “You look so good like this.”

Emily wants to kiss her again, almost more than she wants Lindsey to fuck her.

She doesn’t get to hang onto that thought for long, because then Lindsey is finally touching her, gently and with just the pads of her fingers. Emily can’t help herself, immediately pushing her hips up against Lindsey’s fingers, and then Lindsey is the one making quiet noises, sprawling forward and kissing Emily like she’s as desperate as Emily is, biting down on Emily’s bottom lip at the same time she decides to stop teasing, and Emily groans into her mouth.

“Fuck,” Emily mumbles against Lindsey’s lips. She shifts against the mattress, trying to help find an angle that doesn’t make Lindsey’s hands seem so impossibly big, but then Lindsey twists her wrist and starts up a rhythm that makes Emily give up doing anything but laying there and trying to breathe. 

Emily isn’t sure how long they go on like that, Lindsey curling her fingers as she pushes Emily closer, Lindsey’s mouth working against her neck and Emily’s arms burning like she’s at lift. Neither of them are quiet— Emily has given up on words, mumbling god knows what in the general direction of the ceiling as she works her hips up against Lindsey’s hand, but Lindsey hasn’t.

“Em,” she says, lips grazing the skin just below Emily’s ear. “You’re so good.”

That’s all it takes.

Lindsey holds her through it, nose pressed into the hollow of Emily’s throat and the hand between Emily’s legs moving to Emily’s stomach, using just enough pressure that Emily is forced to stop straining against the cuffs digging into her wrists and focus on breathing instead. She comes down slowly, her hazy brain zeroing in on how Lindsey is swiping her thumb along the sticky skin of her stomach, calming in a way that isn’t too far off from how Lindsey puts her hands on Emily anywhere but here.

“Where’s the key?” Lindsey asks, eventually.

Emily laughs, tilting her head back and trying not to grin when Lindsey sits up to look at her, eyebrows drawn together. “In the drawer somewhere,” she says. “I think.”

Lindsey has to straddle Emily again to keep her balance, leaning halfway off the bed to rummage in the bottom draw of Emily’s night stand. She’s turning steadily red again, very intentionally not looking as she digs through the drawer’s contents, and Emily almost laughs at how relieved she looks when she comes up with the key.

“Shut up,” Lindsey mutters, sitting up and reaching for Emily’s wrists. “I’d have to leave the country if I had to call the fire department over this.”

“You’d miss me,” Emily says.

Lindsey fumbles the key, and Emily only feels a little smug about it.

Emily only lets her get one cuff loose before she disentangles herself from the headboard, sitting up a little as she inspects the red skin of her wrists. Lindsey sits back on her heels, giving her space, and when Emily looks up at her she looks so unsure of herself that Emily is almost startled at the difference. Leaving the second cuff where it is, Emily reaches out to press her palm against Lindsey’s chest, shifting her hips and pushing at the same time so Lindsey is nudged over onto her back. Emily follows, kneeling between Lindsey’s legs, and Lindsey presses her hands over her face, trying to hide the flush that’s stretching down her chest.

It took them weeks to get back to normal last time— Lindsey had avoided her at breakfast, on the bus, even on the field when they made it back to Portland. Emily had given her space, thinking the less Lindsey saw of her the more normal they’d be when they had to share the same space, but now she knows that was a mistake. 

“Lindsey,” Emily says, staying still until Lindsey gives in and drops her hands to the bed. She reaches out, thumbing the cuff still on Emily’s wrist, and Emily ducks down to kiss her, resting her weight between Lindsey’s legs and letting herself touch anywhere she can reach. Lindsey is more restrained than Emily was, keeping her hips still, but Emily can tell she’s antsy from the way she digs her fingers into Emily’s skin, leaving marks on her sides and back and anywhere else they know their teammates will see.

That Lindsey doesn’t seem to care what people will think, for once, feels like a bigger win than any game.

Emily lets it go on like that until Lindsey runs out of breath, then starts edging her way down the bed, tugging at Lindsey’s sweatpants and underwear at once, savoring the way Lindsey props herself up on her elbows to watch her go. She wants Lindsey to look at her like this all the time, lips parted and pupils blown out, her hair a mess— she’s thinking about what that means when her lips hit the line of Lindsey’s hipbone and Lindsey has to drop her head back into the pillows, finally lifting her hips up against Emily.

Lindsey is a mess already— Emily is going to have nightmares about it, how turned on Lindsey gets from getting her off, and she wonders if Lindsey was like this in Brasilia. Emily had been too overwhelmed and Lindsey had rolled off of her and into the other bed before she could even try to return the favor; Emily had never thought about it before. The handcuffs get tangled in Emily’s sheets as she slips further down the bed, settling between Lindsey’s legs; Emily laughs, shaking them free and tucking her hands under and around Lindsey’s thighs, pulling her far enough down the mattress that Emily can breathe against her.

“Em,” Lindsey says again, through her teeth, as she threads her fingers into Emily’s hair. Emily waits for her to tug at it, just a little, before giving in. It was worth the wait— seconds and minutes, days and weeks and months, all the way back to Brasilia— to hear her name in Lindsey’s mouth like this, soft and sharp at the same time, over and over as Emily works her up and back down again.

She wants to make Lindsey forget about every bad game she’s ever played.

Emily is well on her way to making Lindsey forget this one when she loosens her grip on Lindsey’s thighs, finally letting Lindsey start to move her hips, and skates her palms up Lindsey’s legs to her stomach. In response, Lindsey frees one hand from where it’s tangled in Emily’s hair, fumbling blindly until she catches one of Emily’s hands in her own and grips it tightly— Emily looks up, startled, only to find Lindsey staring down at her, lips parted and eyes dark.

It’s all the encouragement Emily needs, slipping her free hand down between Lindsey’s legs and bringing her fingers into the equation. Lindsey is quieter than Emily expected, all sharp inhales and muffled sounds, but her body is so responsive that Emily doesn’t care at all, savoring the way her hips move and the tension in her legs when she gets close. Emily wants to say something, but that would require stopping what she’s doing, and that defeats the purpose; instead she squeezes Lindsey’s hand, rubbing her thumb against the skin of Lindsey’s knuckles, reassuring.

Lindsey says her name when she comes, and Emily coaxes her through it, wanting to hear her say it again and again— she does, and when she comes down she doesn’t let go of Emily’s hand. Emily pulls back just a bit, resting her chin on Lindsey’s thigh and waiting for Lindsey to collect herself enough to move; when she does sit up a little bit, she’s bright red and seems to look everywhere but at Emily.

Emily squeezes her fingers. “Hey.”

It takes a moment, but Lindsey finally makes eye contact, sitting up but not letting go of Emily’s hand. “Yeah?” she says, her voice hoarse.

It hits Emily square in the chest. “You good?”

There’s a long second where Emily is terrified of what the answer will be. Lindsey lets go of Emily’s hand to run her fingers through her hair, pulling it back and twisting it over her shoulder. Emily tries not to think about how beautiful Lindsey looks in her bed, shrouded in half light.

Lindsey clears her throat, and Emily’s focus snaps back to reality. “Yeah,” she says, the corners of her mouth curled up into a hesitant smile. “I’m good.”

Emily grins back.

-

Emily is disoriented when she wakes up. 

It’s bright out, sunlight filtering in through the gaps in her blinds, and she’s not in her usual spot sprawled out in the middle of her bed, pushed instead to one side— with Lindsey’s arm slung low across her stomach, keeping Emily from rolling right off the mattress. Everything comes back in a rush that makes Emily hold her breath in her lungs until it hurts, then slowly let it out; she can feel Lindsey’s slow, steady breathing on the back of her neck in contrast.

She’s totally fucked.

Extricating herself from Lindsey’s sleepy cling as gently as possible, Emily aggressively tries not to think about Lindsey spooning her, all soft skin and long limbs, trying to take stock of her own body instead. Her wrists are red and her whole body aches but it’s refreshing, rather than the prolonged drag she normally feels the morning after a hard game, and as she collects a set of clothes off the floor she has a brief thought that she hopes Lindsey feels the same way. Lindsey looks warm and inviting in Emily’s bed, and it takes a level of willpower that Emily didn’t think she possessed before this morning to finish getting dressed and quietly slip out into the hall instead of climbing back in with her.

Somehow the thing that makes Emily feel least like her universe is about to implode is making breakfast. She pads over to the kitchen and digs the waffle iron out from under the island, doing her absolute best to not think at all about how big Lindsey had felt when she had pinned Emily there last night.

She’s halfway through pouring the first ladle full of batter into the hot iron when Lindsey emerges from the bedroom, hair pulled back immaculately but wearing a pair of sweatpants that end halfway down her calves. Emily clears her throat, startling Lindsey out of her haze.

“Those are mine,” she says, pointing with the ladle.

Lindsey glances down as if she hadn’t noticed, then back up at Emily. “That’s my shirt.”

“Well,” Emily says, doing her best to keep a straight face, “what’s mine is yours, I guess.”

It makes Lindsey blush. She joins Emily at the counter, leaning over to watch as Emily peels an only slightly burnt waffle out of the iron and pours another. Emily plates the finished waffle with a flourish then turns to offer it to Lindsey, who is suddenly too close.

“Waffle?” Emily asks, wiggling the plate lamely and feeling like she’s trying to keep the pin in a grenade.

Lindsey studies her for a moment before taking the plate, then leans in closer to brush her lips against Emily’s, just barely there but so sure of herself when she pulls back that she smiles when Emily blinks up at her. Emily opens her mouth to say something, anything, but Lindsey beats her to it.

“Thanks.”


End file.
